Chapter 38 – Rotten Thrones
The air in the throne hall was thick with an oppressive, unyielding silence. A silence borne of centuries of tyranny, of power held and discarded like the withered husks of rulers who had long since fallen into death's embrace. The walls, once adorned with the grandeur of immortal reign, now lay covered in a thin, slick layer of dust, each brick crumbling under the weight of time. The hall itself seemed to groan with the accumulated sorrow of ages, the bones of past kings lying dormant in the stones, their regal influence forever diminished.
Rin walked into the hall uninvited, his steps echoing across the cavernous expanse. His eyes scanned the empty thrones—giant, petrified structures, each one holding the lifeless remains of an immortal who had once sat upon them, ruling with the arrogance of eternity. These were not thrones of power, not places of glory. They were tombs—tombs of the foolish who had believed they could rule death, but instead had been consumed by it.
At the far end of the hall, a throne stood out from the others. It was grander, more intricate, the seat of the last king. Unlike the others, this one had not crumbled. It had fused with the decayed body of its former occupant, as though the throne had claimed the king for itself. The once regal figure was now a grotesque mockery of a ruler: skin fused to the throne's armrests, eyes empty and hollow, yet still possessing a flicker of consciousness. It was as though the throne had made the king one with itself, locking him into an eternal state of half-life.
Rin did not flinch, though there was a palpable weight to the air. The presence of the dead kings, the hollow memory of their dominion, was suffocating. These were no mere corpses. They were the remnants of an era that had tried, and failed, to conquer death. They were the fools who had sought immortality and, in doing so, had locked themselves into eternal stagnation.
The last king's hollow gaze fixed upon Rin as he approached. There was an unnatural stillness to the way he regarded him, as though he had been waiting for this moment for an eternity.
"You are the Endborne," the king's voice rasped, distant and filled with a hollow echo. "I can feel it in you—the same hunger, the same refusal to kneel before death. You have come seeking the end. But what if I offer you something else? A throne. Power. Immortality."
Rin's eyes narrowed as he drew closer, his every step deliberate. He could hear the creak of the throne's ancient wood as the king attempted to shift in his seat, but it was a futile gesture—he was bound, trapped in that seat, part of the very throne he had once ruled.
"I offer you a place beside me," the king continued, his voice growing stronger with each word, though it was laced with the stench of decay. "Rule this realm as I did. You can become its master. No more running from death. No more fear. You will sit here, in this hall, and you will forget the pain of mortality. You will become death itself."
Rin's lips curled into a grim smile, but there was no warmth in it. His eyes glowed with the cold, relentless light of death's clarity. He stepped forward, his every movement precise and unhurried, as though the throne were not even worthy of his attention.